The Unexpected Enemy
by mischeifmanaged3
Summary: Set in season 10. Sam and Dean encounter unexpected problems when Sam is shot after successfully completing a hunt. Dean faces internal struggles against the Mark of Cain when an old enemy suddenly threatens the Winchesters under this stressful situation. Rated T for mild violence and swearing. AU where Garth is human.
1. The Unexpected Enemy

He wasn't expecting it because they were done. They'd torched the Wendigo easy enough (those were always a bitch) and he was just ready to pass out in the tourist trap motel they'd rented. He hadn't been psyched at how successful the motel was, not wanting to stand out, but when he met the young and quite shapely owner, he figured it was worth it.

So when Dean heard the gunshot, he physically reacted and his adrenaline kicked into full gear. He heard the bullet wiz past him, and miss him by a millimeter. He heard it sink into its target, and he heard a grunt behind him. He turned to see Sam throw a hand to his chest and sink to his knees.

"Sam!"

Heart racing, and cursing the seconds he'd stood in shock, Dean pulled out his gun and aimed ahead of him. There was no one there, but he shot three rounds into the trees. Nothing. He waited, any small sound making him flinch.

Not entirely convinced that the sniper was gone, Dean finally let himself face his brother, and just in time to catch him from collapsing. Sam had fallen to his knees, his face white, but his hand very red.

"Sam, hey, you with me?" Dean asked shakily, holding Sam up on his good side with one hand, and clutching his gun in his other, ready if the sniper tried again. Upon closer inspection, Dean actually saw where his brother was shot. It wasn't a shoulder shot as he'd expected, it was farther in, dangerously close to his lungs.

"Sammy..." Dean gasped in shock. Sam still hadn't responded, and had now squeezed his eyes shut and pinched his face, gasping and groaning.

"Sam!"

Sam jerked back to the present, and seemed to actually see Dean this time.

"Snipe...per?" Sam gasped out, coughing at the effort. This only worried Dean more, but he couldn't panic, not yet.

"Yeah, must have been, hell knows why though," he said. He still hadn't seen Sam take a breath, and his coughing worried him. "Sam, I need you to breathe."

Dean sighed in relief as he watched Sam take a breath. He fell back into survival mode and checked Sam's back for a through and through.

"No exit wound," he muttered to himself, "we gotta get back to the motel, get that bullet out." It wasn't going to be fun, but they had no choice. "Can you stand?"

Sam nodded and shakily held onto Dean for support. Dean stood, pulling his brother up as well, but Sam's knees buckled, and he leaned heavily onto Dean.

"Dean," Sam gasped. His breathing was raspy, and he'd already lost too much blood. Dean worried he wouldn't even make it to the car. He tried not to dwell on it though, and pulled his brother forward.

"Just hold on, we're almost there."

By the time they made it to the car, Sam's hair was sticking to his forehead with sweat, and he was hardly controlling his movements, forcing Dean to all but drag him the last few feet.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean muttered, more to himself than to Sam as he opened the passenger door and lowered his brother into it. Sam groaned and squeezed his eyes shut once again. Dean closed the door and raced to the driver's side, his heart beat seeming to increase even more. He removed his flannel so he was in just his T shirt, and gently patted Sam awake.

"Sam, you can't sleep," he said worriedly. He held out the shirt and Sam took it, fisting it. "Keep pressure, come on Sam," Dean's voice shook. Sam pressed it to his chest, groaning. Dean turned and started the car, gripping the wheel to keep his hands from shaking.

Dean drove with one hand on the wheel, and one hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam had seemingly fallen asleep, with the occasional mutter of Dean's name. Dean worriedly kept glancing over, to the point where the majority of his focus was on Sam and not the road.

"Damnit, Sam," he muttered anxiously.

It took twenty minutes to get back to the motel, and by then, Sam's breathing had turned to wheezing gasps. Dean threw the car into park and raced around to the other side, being careful to open the door slowly because Sam was leaning against it.

"Call–Garth" Sam breathed.

"What? Sam–" Dean gently pulled his brother from the car. "Here, help me out," he grunted. Sam groaned, but managed to grasp Dean's shoulder and Dean hurriedly pulled him to the room.

"Sniperrrrr..." Sam slurred while stumbling next to Dean. Dean fumbled with the motel keys, wanting to spend as little time out in the open as possible especially during the day, but somehow being more careless than usual. Finally, he got the door open and begged the last of Sam's strength to get him to the bed. Sam took a short breath and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Dean– call Garth..."

Dean just stared at Sam for a second, panicked thoughts swirling his head, heart racing. What he really wanted to do was pull the bullet out of his brother, stitch him up, and watch him sleep. But he knew he had to take care of the sniper, if not for his own sake, then for Sam's.

"Yeah," he said, "alright, hold on."

He took out his phone and dialed Garth's number. While he waited as it rang, he went around the room retrieving things he would need: first aid kit, whiskey, towels, water. He was in the middle of pulling towels from the bathroom when he heard Garth on the other end.

"Dean! What's crack-a-lackin?"

"Garth, hey, you got any guys near Old Forge New York?" Dean said, thankful that he'd somehow caught Garth. He looked to Sam, who seemed satisfied that Dean had complied. He still held the shirt to his shoulder, but had begun shivering. Dean found a blanket, and gently placed it over him, then resumed his pacing.

"Hmmm, I think Jorah's up there somewhere," Garth said, "upstate N.Y. always blends together. Why? What do you got?"

"Wendigo," Dean said, "Sam and I took one out up in the mountains, but Sam was shot by something else, we don't know."

"Sam was shot! I ain't never heard of a Wendigo handling a gun, maybe they're getting smarter..."

"Garth–"

"Don't worry, Dean, I'll send someone out. Tell Sam to hang in there."

"Alright, thanks a lot, Garth."

Dean turned back to Sam, who had somehow gotten paler in just five minutes. He warily stared back up at Dean and took a breath.

"Garth–"

"Is sending someone up. As long as we're in here, we should be fine," Dean said unconvincingly. Sam said nothing, but sighed. "Let's get this over with," Dean said unscrewing the whiskey and offering it to Sam.

"No– Dean, m'fine," he mumbled, his short breath a sure sign that he was not fine.

Dean, knowing this might happen, took a swig himself. Not enough to lose focus, but enough to take off the edge.

"Come on, Sam, we both know this will be rough. Don't make me drink alone," he said. They didn't have anything strong enough to mask the pain that fishing the bullet out would cause, so their next option was intoxication. Sam sighed and held his hand out for the bottle. Dean handed it to him, but his hand shook so bad that Dean had to help guide it to his lips. Once almost half the bottle was gone, Dean set it back on the table and opted instead for the pair of scissors.

He unbuttoned Sam's shirt, then began cutting away his T shirt, which had stuck to his skin from blood near the wound. Just the small agitation caused a hiss from Sam. After a very cautious minute, Dean managed to pull the shirt away from his skin and take a look at the wound.

While it had stopped bleeding, it was still a bloody mess, saturating his shirt and leaving his skin red. The wound itself was slightly swollen, and angrily red itself. Dean had pulled out bullets before, but it had always been a leg or shoulder, never this close to anything major. It wouldn't be easy.

Dean set the scissors down, unfolded a small towel and then bunched it up.

"Here," he said, "bite down." Dean surely didn't want Sam biting off his own tongue, but he also knew they had neighbors at this motel. Neighbors that would definitely hear the screaming. Sam obediently opened his mouth and bit the towel. He gripped the sheets and looked away.

"Just try to relax," Dean said. He picked up the forceps, placing his other hand on Sam's shoulder, ready to hold him down.

Dean tried not to listen to the muffled screaming, tried not to register the thrashing underneath him. His sole focus was on finding the bullet. He carefully followed the channel, navigating through muscle and tissue. The bullet had gone deep, he could figure that much. Finally though, he felt metal touch metal, and couldn't help but smile with relief. He squeezed it with the forceps and pulled, removing the small bullet from Sam's chest. Immediately, the wound began bleeding again, and Dean snatched a clean towel and pressed it down, applying pressure. He took a deep breath.

"Alright, Sammy, it's out."

Sam spit out the towel and coughed. Dean could see tears at the corners of his eyes, he could only imagine how painful it had been and still was.

"H-holy s-hit," he gasped. His voice was raspy from screaming, and shook as he took a breath. Dean took a relieving breath himself, knowing the worst was over. With his hand still keeping pressure, he reached for the glass of water and brought it to Sam's lips.

"Here, drink this," he said. He gave Sam a small sip and waited, letting his brother catch his breath, then urged more water into him.

It looked as if Sam was starting to calm down. Dean didn't like how pale he'd become though. Dean had wanted to avoid stitching up the most likely infected wound, but Sam couldn't afford to lose much more blood.

"How you doing?" Dean asked.

"Tired..." Sam mumbled. His eyes fluttered shut.

"Come on, Sam, you gotta stay awake." Dean pleaded, but Sam didn't open his eyes again. It sounded like he was trying to say something, but his words were slurred and Dean couldn't make any sense of them.

"I swear Sam, m'gonna kill that SOB…." Dean muttered anxiously. He pressed the shirt to Sam's chest and waited for the bleeding to slow.

The first thing Sam felt when he woke up was his head. A pounding on his temple tore him from the blissful sleep he'd just woken from. Assessing the rest of his body, he felt the sharp pain and ache in his chest, and remembered being shot. Dean had removed the bullet, he couldn't forget that, but he didn't remember anything afterwards.

When he took a breath, his heart sunk as he felt the air passing through his rough throat. He didn't need any confirmation that the wound had gotten infected, leaving him with a fever.

"Dean," he said hoarsely. He didn't have enough effort to open his eyes, but he needed to make sure his brother was there. He heard no response. It shouldn't have surprised him, after all, he'd barely whispered his brother's name. His feverish state though somehow seemed to be enhancing his panic. He took another deep breath which resulted in more coughing.

"Dean?" he tried again, more awake this time. He strained to listen for any noise through his throbbing head. Not sure he was imagining it, he heard the rustle of sheets, and then:

"Sammy?" Dean sounded like he'd been sleeping, and Sam felt bad for waking him up, but just Dean's voice calmed him down substantially. He heard more movement, and then felt the bed depress as his brother sat next to him.

"Sam, hey, you with me this time?" Dean asked. Sam felt a hand on his forehead. _This time?_ Had he woken up before? He pried his eyes open and had to blink a few times for Dean's face to come into focus.

Dean looked exhausted, like he hadn't slept in days. Sam didn't know how long he'd been sleeping, but they hadn't slept much the night before they fought the Wendigo, so Dean was at least one night short of sleep.

"Infected?" Sam asked. It hurt his throat to talk. The look of relief on Dean's face at Sam's coherence told him he must have been in and out for a while.

"Yeah," Dean said, clearing his voice. He got up and went over to a table that was littered with various items and selected a few. "I had to stitch you up, you were bleeding too much, which caused the infection and fever." Dean returned to Sam's bedside holding a glass of water and thermometer. Even with Dean's help, simply trying to sit up tired Sam, and he felt a flash of pain through his chest where he was shot.

He groaned, and his heartbeat increased, not helping his already pounding head. He could feel the blood leave his face, and he shut his eyes from the dizziness that had set in.

"Here, drink," Dean said handing Sam the glass, "you're getting dehydrated."

The glass was heavier than Sam had remembered, and it took all his concentration not to spill it. While the water was soothing on his throat, it filled him up quickly, and he hardly got through the entire glass before he set it down. Dean noticed, but didn't remark. He handed Sam the thermometer, who reluctantly placed it under his tongue.

"101.7, not bad," Dean said, taking it from Sam when it beeped. Sam shut his eyes tiredly, having trouble focusing on everything that was happening.

"Hey, come on," Dean said grasping his shoulder. "I've gotta get some food in you before you pass out again, huh?"

Sam opened his eyes and coughed. Dean was already busying himself at the microwave with a microwaveable can of soup.

"Not– hungry–" Sam managed from his raw throat. In truth, he felt that even if he tried to drink more water, his stomach would just reject it.

Dean pulled the cup out of the microwave and found a spoon. He brought both back to Sam's bedside and sat in a chair that was somehow already there.

"Come on, Sam, I can't give you any more pain meds without something in your system."

 _Any more?_ Sam had no recollection of taking pain medication before. That worried him. What else had he missed? He glanced down at his injured chest, and his right arm. He experimentally wiggled his fingers just to make sure they still worked, of which they did.

"I'll try," he muttered. The look of pure relief on Dean's face was enough to pull the corners of Sam's mouth up in a smile. He handed Sam the spoon, but kept the cup, holding it close enough for Sam to reach.

Sam knew his fingers would betray him and spill the soup if he took too much, so he was careful, and managed not to spill any. He didn't really taste it. Or maybe it was just bland, bland and lukewarm. Dean didn't object as Sam's sips got smaller and smaller until his vision got fuzzy and he felt the lightheadedness set in. He closed his eyes and waited for it to pass.

"Can't," he whispered. It took the rest of his energy from him, and his hand fell to his side, his fingers relaxing around the spoon. He felt Dean gently slip the spoon from his fingers.

"That's alright," he said quietly. "What about Tylenol?"

Dean's voice–although quiet–was like a punch to Sam's brain. He knew that if he opened his eyes, he would get dizzy, so he tried a nod, and hoped Dean would understand.

"Here we go," Dean said. Sam cracked his eyes, and opened his mouth for the pill Dean was holding. Dean didn't even give him a chance to hold the water, but put it to his lips and tilted it back. Sam obediently swallowed, then slid down until he was laying down again.

"Thanks, Dean," he whispered. He hadn't fallen asleep before he heard a very quiet "no problem."

It was morning when Dean woke again, and he hadn't fully awakened when he heard a thump from the bathroom. He immediately jolted awake and looked to Sam's bed which was empty.

"Sam!" he called, while sliding out of bed and hurrying to the bathroom. Sam hadn't even closed the door all the way, and therefore Dean could hear retching noises coming from inside. When he pushed the door open, he saw Sam leaning over the toilet.

He was pale as a sheet, and ashy looking. His hair clung to his face from sweat, and it took just a little too long for him to look up and notice Dean in the doorway.

"Dean," he gasped. He took a long breath and leaned back against the bath tub.

"That bad, huh?" Dean said at the sight of his ailing brother. Sam didn't respond, but rasped out a question of his own.

"Any–word from–Garth?" he said, closing his eyes. Dean sighed and found a glass. He filled it with sink water and handed it to Sam who took a miniscule sip, and grimaced.

"Nothing yet, it's only been a day though–"

"Gotta– we gotta keep moving," Sam said between coughs.

Dean looked at his brother incredulously. He'd been delirious in bed not 12 hours ago, refusing food, and could barely stand. The worst thing to do was to leave.

"Sam, what are you talking about? You're dead on your feet, there's no way we're leaving," Dean said.

"I'll be fine– sleep in the car," Sam said. He grabbed the edge of the bathtub, and made to stand, but Dean pushed him back down.

"Alright, just hold on," he said. Dean himself wanted nothing more than to get on the road two states over, but Sam had been shot the day before, and was sporting a fever. He wasn't going to jeopardize Sam's health unless he absolutely had to.

"If your temp is 100 or lower, then we'll go," Dean said pulling out the thermometer. Sam sighed, but held his hand out for it anyway.

Sam couldn't even grasp the thermometer before Dean's phone began ringing startling them both. Dean grabbed the thermometer back and slipped his phone from his pocket, the caller ID reading "Jorah"

"Jorah, any info?" he said on the second ring. All he heard from the other end was a chuckle.

"Jorah put up a fight, I'll give him that."

Dean's face immediately turned cold, and he stood up straighter. Sam seemed to sense his brother's change, and looked at him questioningly.

"Who the hell is this." Dean's voice was low, and he tried to keep it steady, but he was damn sure he was talking to the sniper, the sniper that had shot Sam. In Dean's book, when his little brother was a line that just was not crossed.

"Come on Dean-o, I remember you," The line sent a chill up Dean's back, and almost too late, he heard the steps outside the motel door. In one swift move, he pressed the lock on the bathroom door and stepped outside.

"Dean, no!" Sam yelled, obviously realizing what Dean was about to do. He lunged from his spot on the ground to the door, but Dean had already shut it, locking him in.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean said, hearing the weak thump as Sam stumbled after him. He put a chair up against the knob so Sam couldn't escape.

"Sam's in there with you, isn't he, Dean."

Dean's mind was brought back to the present as suddenly the motel door was kicked in revealing a man hardly taller than Dean dressed in black and carrying a sawed-off. He seemed familiar somewhere in Dean's mind, but he couldn't place where he'd seen him before.

"Oh come on," the stranger said, aimlessly waving his gun. Dean had a gun in his belt, but he waited, put his hands up. "What, do demons have short term memory loss?"

Suddenly he realized where he'd heard that voice before. Cole. He remembered this devastated victim only seeking revenge. He remembered everything that had happened, everything he had done, but it was like watching through a film, as if it hadn't been him, but someone else.

"Look, it's not what you think–" Dean started.

"Oh yeah," Cole said, taking a step toward Dean. Dean slowly began reaching behind him, '''I was drunk, it was a mistake, I feel horrible' yeah right," Cole mocked. "I don't have a father because of you!"

Dean flinched as suddenly Cole pointed the shotgun at Dean and pulled a bottle of water from his pocket.

"Woah, woah–"

"I know what you are," Cole said.

Dean was frozen. Of course he wasn't a demon anymore. Of course Cole's father had been a monster. But what stopped Dean, what kept him from acting, was that fact that _he'd_ been the cause of this lifelong revenge. Dean knew the life of revenge. He knew the consequences and what it did to people. He'd seen his father throw his life away for it. Dean realized in that moment just how much he'd changed Cole's life, and it floored him.

"I've been doing a lot of thinking, Dean-o," Cole said, taking another step forward. "I'm going to kill you, demon scum–"

Out of nowhere, Cole's boot connected with Dean's face, sending his head into a spiral of pain. His neck snapped back and he fell to the ground, only just managing to hold consciousness to watch Cole switch his focus to the bathroom.

"But first, a little eye for an eye," Cole said, and he kicked the chair away from the bathroom door.

Sam didn't immediately burst through the door when he'd heard the chair being knocked away. He knew better than to go into a fight blind, not to mention the fact that he could barely stand. But he couldn't leave Dean out there alone with Cole. He braced himself on the sink, watching the door warily as the doorknob turned and the door swung open.

"Sam," Cole said. His eyes traveled the length of Sam, took in the stooped posture, the pale face. "Been a while, I see you've fixed your arm."

Sam wasted no time taking in his surroundings, but thrust his fist at Cole's face.

On a good day, Sam could take someone out with a single punch and simply shake out his hand. On a good day, he could have put Cole unconscious, but today he barely seemed to agitate him. His hand hit its mark, but not nearly with enough force, and he wavered, unsteady as the sudden movement made him dizzy.

"You don't look so good," Cole said. He took a step toward Sam, who did all he could to keep from collapsing to the ground. Sam suddenly cried out in pain as Cole grasped his shoulder, agitating the gunshot wound and sending a white-hot shock of pain through his body. If Cole hadn't been holding him up, he would have fallen to his knees.

"Dean needs to know how it feels." Cole's tone suddenly turned serious as he pushed Sam against the wall. Sam blinked his eyes hard as Cole's form seemed to shimmer in his vision.

"You'd kill–innocent?" Sam ground out in gasping breaths.

That seemed to make Cole hesitate. His eyes softened for the briefest of seconds. Sam took the opportunity.

"You–you don't wanna do this," he said quickly. He could hear his own voice fading, "your son–"

He felt a blow to his face and grunted as Cole adjusted his grip on him. The aggression only meant Sam was getting through to him, and Sam knew he could talk Cole down. He knew how to talk to people, he did it every day.

"Cole–"

Sam couldn't finish what he was going to say though, as Cole suddenly pitched sideways, followed closely by Dean's fist. Without the support of Cole holding him up, Sam slid down the wall and hit the floor sending his head spinning. Dizziness and pain overtook him, and he leaned against the wall dazed for a second, trying to grasp at some kind of reality.

"Dean–" he wheezed. From the noises he'd been able to discern, he could tell that Dean hadn't stopped after the one punch. He knew that Cole didn't deserve to die, and he knew that Dean would believe it as well. Dean was fighting too hard.

"Dean, stop!" he said more forcefully, which sent his ears ringing. There was quiet for a minute, then Dean was in his field of vision. His eyes were wild and unfocused, his fist bloody. Sam kept his stare until Dean's face softened, and a look of surprise crossed it.

"I'm good, Sammy," he said quietly. Sam let out a shaky breath and closed his eyes in relief. He felt Dean's hands on his face, his shoulder, prodding the wound. He hissed in pain, but couldn't be bothered to protest, afraid he might throw up, or worse pass out. He felt a glass on his lips and he tipped his head back and drank, the water helping his drying mouth.

"Your stitches broke, but I got a pressure bandage," Dean was saying. His voice was low and calm. "Should hold until we can stop again. You good to move?"

No, he was not good to move. He felt that if he even opened his eyes he would tip over. But there was nothing more he wanted than to get the hell out of Dodge. Without answering or opening his eyes for that matter, he grasped his brother's shoulder and began to get his feet underneath him. His legs were weak and shaky, and he leaned forward, his head falling on Dean's chest.

"Woah, woah hey–" Dean grunted. Sam's ear pressed against Dean's chest and he felt his heartbeat. Strong and pounding, clashing with his own. It made him dizzy. It was just Dean's adrenaline, Sam kept telling himself. Although he couldn't ignore what he'd just seen. The one thing Dean had been trying to avoid.

Dean could tell that Sam was barely holding it together, but was holding out for Dean's sake because he was worried. Hell, Dean was worried. Dean had been in Cole's place. Doing what you thought was right to get revenge. Cole deserved better. Yet after that first punch, Dean had felt a rush. He'd felt the absolute thirst. He remembered what it had been like, and he wanted it back. Sam's voice was like a whisper in his mind amongst the reverie, but it just managed to pull him out. He'd told Sam he was okay, but even that had seemed like a lie to his own ears.

He clung to Sam as they stumbled out of the motel, offering the support Sam needed, but taking his own in Sam's weakness, needing to feel the reality. It scared him, his loss of control. Half of him wanted nothing more than to finish the job. But the other half kept reminding him that Cole didn't deserve to die, and that he couldn't sink down again.

Dean eased Sam down into the passenger seat of the Impala, covering him in the blanket they kept in the backseat for times like this. Then he locked the doors and went back to the motel, quickly grabbing their things, making an effort to avoid the bathroom where he'd left Cole unconscious. When he got back to the car, Sam's eyes were open and searching him worriedly.

"Bleeding," he said. Dean felt the blood on his face.

"M'fine," he said, "s'just my nose."

"Concussion?"

"Really Sam, I'm fine–" Dean protested, but Sam interrupted.

"Cole."

Dean paused and forced himself to take a breath.

"I'll send out an anonymous call. By the time our names come up, we'll be in the next state."

Sam didn't respond, but closed his eyes and leaned back against the seat. Dean ran a shaky hand through his hair and started the car.


	2. The Unexpected Consequence

_A/N: Thanks for all the views! This was supposed to be a oneshot, but now I guess there's a second chapter. Also, I did some research, and remembered that at this point in the show, Garth is a werewolf, so this story is now AU where Garth is human. Yay Garth!_

 _Many thanks to my beta, ronstory! If you read Harry Potter fanfiction, they have a great Ron-centric story that is AU book seven which is definitely worth a read!_

* * *

Dean grimaced at his reflection in the gas station bathroom mirror. He looked terrible. A bruise was beginning to form under his right eye where he'd gotten a face full of Cole's boot, and while his nose wasn't bleeding anymore, dried blood covered his face, giving him the appearance of an ax murderer.

He winced.

Ax murderer wasn't far off at this point. If Sam hadn't been there, hadn't pulled Dean from the temptations of the Mark, Cole would be dead. Dean didn't want to think of how the Mark would have affected his mind had he been successful. He sighed and began cleaning his face.

Dean hadn't planned on stopping at all, wanting to get as far away from the motel, and Cole, as he could. Hell, he would have driven straight to the Bunker if he'd had it his way. But Sam had insisted. He'd told Dean to clean himself up, get something to eat, and think about stopping.

Dean had agreed only because Sam needed rest. He needed to be horizontal with a couple Tylenol knocking him out for the night. More than that though, the pressure bandage he'd hastily covered over Sam's ruined stitches wouldn't hold forever. Sam couldn't afford to lose much more blood with his increasing fever.

Dean wet a paper towel and cleared away the blood on his nose, then splashed cold water on his face. He wasn't ready for his close up, but it was an improvement.

Leaving the bathroom, he headed toward the cash register, picking up what he needed on the way. The cashier gave him a quizzical look –most likely from Dean's bruised face– but checked out Dean's purchase of water, coffee, and peanut M&Ms without question.

Five minutes after he'd unfolded himself from the car, he was folding himself back in. Sam was clinging tightly to the blanket wrapped around him as he leaned back in the passenger seat, his eyes closed. Dean knew he wasn't sleeping though; his breathing was too labored.

"How's the fever?" he asked. Sam cleared his throat and took a long breath, but didn't move or open his eyes. He ignored Dean's question and asked one of his own.

"Where are we?" he whispered, his voice hoarse.

"Avis, Pennsylvania," Dean responded, remembering the road sign. They'd only been going just about five hours, but already they were both exhausted. Dean opened the water bottle he'd just bought and handed it to Sam.

"Here, humor me," he said.

Sam opened his eyes a crack and considered the water before reaching for it. He took a small sip and leaned his head back against the window.

"What's the plan?" he asked, capping the bottle. Dean took a sip of his coffee before starting the car and pulling out of the gas station.

"We clear Pennsylvania, find a place and rest up, call Garth, make a plan…" Dean rambled, knowing his brother only cared about stopping for the night. Sam nodded against the window.

"Just hang in there," Dean said, if not to Sam, then to himself.

* * *

It was the one time Dean didn't want to be driving. He was exhausted, his head was killing him, he was worried about Sam, and every motel or restaurant they passed–no matter how sleazy or crappy they seemed–looked warm and inviting to Dean. He ended up giving in to the temptation almost fifty miles from the Pennsylvania Maryland border when they came upon a relatively nice looking motel.

Sam was fast asleep next to him, his breathing regular but strained. Dean put a hand to his forehead and concluded that Sam's fever had not gone down as he'd hoped. At Dean's touch, Sam stirred and blinked groggily at his brother.

"Found us a place," Dean said.

"Okay," Sam responded weakly. Dean stared at his brother for another second, then got out of the car to pay for the room. He asked the desk clerk for two nights upfront, not wanting any excuse to leave before Sam was ready.

By the time Dean returned to the car, Sam had not made a move to exit, but insisted that he was fine to walk, and even protested a little when Dean took his bag from him and swung it over his own shoulder.

The room was more run down than the fancy place they'd been at before, but it wasn't in total shambles. Sam went straight to his unofficially denoted bed and only paused to remove his shoes before collapsing down on it.

"Let me clean and fix your stitches," Dean said tiredly. He put their stuff down and headed for the bathroom to wash his hands. Sam made a noise of annoyance, but otherwise didn't complain.

Dean ignored Sam's feverish skin as he cleaned out the wound–which elicited quite a hiss from Sam–and did his best to stitch it properly, though he couldn't hide the fact that his hands were shaking. When he was finished, he retrieved the bottle of Tylenol from his bag and handed it over. Sam obediently took two and they both fell asleep.

By the morning, Sam's fever had broken and Dean could not have been more relieved. At noon, Sam ate four saltine crackers without feeling nauseous, and on the third day, they both felt well and rested enough to escape the motel for a decent meal.

* * *

Sam was asleep that night when Dean got the phone call from Cole. Only Dean's worry and exhaustion had been able to distract him from the feeling that was itching for his attention. Ever since he'd gotten a taste back in Old Forge, he hadn't been able to shake the bloodlust.

"How bad do you want it, Dean?"

Dean almost hung up right then and there, but for some reason, he waited.

"You'll never find us, Cole."

"I won't need to find you, Dean, you're coming to me." Dean could almost hear the smirk on Cole's face.

Dean didn't say anything. His gut told him to just hang up the phone, but his hand seemed to be disconnected from his brain.

"Spruce Creek, just outside the pharmacy. See you soon, Dean."

Dean didn't get another word in before Cole had hung up the phone. He stood frozen for a second, the phone still pressed against his ear.

At first, there was nothing going through his head. Then he glanced at Sam, and like a switch, his mind was working faster than he could keep up. He looked at the clock: 2am. He glanced his keys on the motel table. He reached under his pillow and gripped the ivory handle of his gun.

It wasn't enough.

Dean could practically feel the First Blade resonating. He needed to have it. The Mark on his arm burned as he thought of it, pictured himself grasping it, facing Cole. But the pain only fueled him more, igniting the urge, the furor.

Without another thought, Dean was out the door and on the road towards Cole, an overwhelming sense of _right_ enveloping his conscience. When he passed the sign indicating he'd entered the Town of Spruce Creek, a thrill went through his body, and the Mark pulsed on his arm, as if it knew it was close to its target. He parked the car near the pharmacy, slipped the gun into his waistband, and headed for the nearby alley.

"Wow Dean, you must want it bad," a voice spoke from the shadows. Without thinking, Dean lunged for the dark figure that suddenly materialized behind the dumpster. An animal-like instinct propelled him through Cole's resistance, and his mind was suddenly in a wild frenzy as he thrust his fist at Cole's face.

Cole hissed and grunted, but managed to push Dean off, his playing nature gone in an instant.

"Too bad I want it more," he seethed.

What followed then was a vicious and feral and bloody fight. Both Dean and Cole seeming to only have one goal in mind. Dean could hardly even keep track of his own movements as some invisible force drove him towards his aim.

Dean dodged a punch and threw one of his own. Cole blocked him just in time, and Dean felt the responding punch in his shoulder. He didn't let it slow him though, and spun out of it delivering a kick in what he thought was Cole's direction. Cole staggered back a few steps and coughed harshly.

"Tell me, were you always a demon? Or did you just start jonesing for the murder life when you killed my old man?" Cole spat. Dean ignored him and stepped forward throwing a punch at Cole's face. Cole ducked and thrust his fist at Dean's throat, sending him staggering into the wall. "What makes you think you and your brother are entitled to _anything_ , after everything you've done?"

"You finished with this heart to heart chat yet?" Dean grunted. He reached his hand toward his back, ready to pull the trigger on Cole once and for all.

"YOU'RE NOT ALLOWED TO GET AWAY WITH THIS!" Cole bellowed, and he lunged for Dean. Dean sidestepped him, curled his fingers around the hilt of his gun, pulled it from his waistband, and–

" _He's got a gun_!"

Dean froze, stunned, his heart beating fast and heavy. He turned toward the mouth of the alley and saw a man wearing a pharmacy vest and staring wide eyed at Dean. Cole was nowhere in sight.

"Please, please!" the man said, his hands shooting up.

Dean recoiled at his innocence, and an immense feeling of dread and guilt washed over him. His hands shook and he lowered the gun slowly. The man stood frozen as well, but as soon as Dean showed his empty hands, he backed out of the alley and Dean heard him running down the street.

Dean stared down at his shaking hands spattered in blood. Each breath he took sped his heartbeat, and the Mark pulsed dramatically with each thump of his chest. His mind continued to reset itself sluggishly, his thoughts coming back to him while his body remained on high alert.

He'd had no control. It had been almost too easy to take a backseat in his own mind and let the Mark decide for him. He'd wanted to _kill_ Cole. He'd _wanted_ to kill Cole. He felt sick, and stiff, and lost.

Dean pulled the safety on the gun and slid it back in his waistband. Then, moving almost mechanically, he left the alley for the Impala. He started the car and drove, not paying attention to where he was going, but just needing to get away– to _leave_.

Less than fifteen minutes later, he was pulling over to the side of the road and stumbling out of the car. He searched for support, anything to stabilize him, but ended up just slowly falling to his knees in the wet grass beside the road. With shaking hands, he took his phone from his pocket and dialed. It wasn't two rings before he got an answer.

"Dean! Where the hell are you?" Sam sounded pissed. Dean swiped a hand down his face.

"Sam-" he began to say, but stopped himself. His heart was beating too fast for him to take a breath. He tried to calm down, tried to ignore the adrenaline still flowing through his veins and the burning on his forearm.

"Sammy I- I can't do this anymore," he finally said. He squeezed his eyes shut and grasped his head in his free hand. For a second there was silence on both ends of the line; Dean could imagine Sam's reaction.

"Dean…." Sam's voice had become quiet. "Dean, where are you, what's going on?"

Dean swallowed "The Mark… it… it got to me," he said. "It was like I couldn't even control it, Sam."

There was a pause, and Dean heard Sam let out his breath. "Are you okay? Where are you?"

Dean didn't answer right away.

"Dean! Where are you?"

"I don't know– I uh…" Dean lifted his head and looked around. He saw a sign in the distance and squinted to read it, "Route 22, Williamsburg."

"Okay, don't move, I'm on my way," Sam said.

The relief was overwhelming. Hell, he didn't want to think what the Mark would make him do next, especially considering how easy he'd just lost control. Sam's stability seemed to set him at ease for a second, but then he realized what this was asking of his little brother– his little brother who had been shot five days before.

"No, I'll be fine, the driving will help me take my mind off it— "

"No– Dean– talk to me, what happened?"

Dean hadn't moved from his crouched position in the grass, and he was dreading the trip back to the motel. The guilt was suffocating. It sickened him that he was still thinking about it– about how it didn't even seem worth it because he didn't get Cole.

"Got a call from Cole… couldn't control myself… just drove without a second thought. I freaking…I just… I don't know what to do."

Sam was quiet for a minute. His mind was telling him to just hang up and get headed back, but he didn't hang up. He didn't move.

"Okay," Sam said, "okay, here's what you're going to do. You're going to go to the Impala, turn on the radio, and wait for me to get there. Then we'll figure it out. Whether that means finding Cole, sitting tight for a while at the Bunker, calling Cas… I don't know, but we'll figure it out."

An invisible weight on Dean's shoulders seemed to let up a bit simply for the fact that now he had a plan. Now he wasn't alone. Sam told him what he needed to do, and he would do it, at least until that didn't work. But he had time, time to try to get control.

"Go to the car, Dean," Sam said, as if sensing Dean's uncontrollable need to stall.

"Right, right, yeah," Dean said. He pushed himself off the ground and started walking to the Impala. "Alright, okay," he said getting into the car, "I'll see you in a few."

"On my way already," Sam said before he hung up.

Dean started the car and flinched as music suddenly broke the silence, but he reveled in the familiarity and comfort it provided. He turned up the volume, closed his eyes, and waited for Sam.


	3. The Unexpected Aftereffect

The letters blurred into each other, but Dean forgot what he'd been trying to read anyway. That's what Jager did to you. He was almost halfway through the bottle with no intention of stopping.

Sam had gone to bed a few hours ago after urging Dean to sleep as well. Dean knew Sam was hurting–if not from the pain lining his face, then from the way he'd rigidly held his arm by his side the entire drive back to the Bunker.

So many things were Dean's fault these days, and it was Sam and Cas that kept having to pick up after him. These days, Dean wondered whether killing Abaddon was worth being burdened with the ancient mark. He took another swig of the liquor, relishing in the bite, and looked at his watch. _12:52 PM_. Because the Bunker didn't have windows, it was easy to pretend it was a reasonable time to be drinking as much as he was. Then again, Dean had never cared about that kind of thing anyway.

"Hey."

Dean looked up from reading the bottle and saw Sam standing stiffly in the doorway, his right arm pressed tightly against his side. Sam's curt tone and squinty eyes told Dean everything he needed to know about how his brother was feeling.

"Couldn't sleep?"

Sam grunted and pulled out the chair across from Dean. He sat down holding himself carefully. Dean gently pushed the alcohol toward Sam. Sam gave it a glance but didn't make a move toward it.

"Come on," Dean said, "I know those low grade painkillers aren't doing anything for you."

After another glance, Sam reached for the bottle and tipped it back. He choked at the harsh liquor, then took another sip.

"We'll find a way, Dean," Sam said after a few minutes. Dean looked down at his arm. It was covered now with a long sleeve shirt, but the Mark was still there nevertheless. Still more dangerous than he'd expected.

He wanted to believe Sam, he really did, but the more he thought about it and researched it, the more he realized removing the Mark was impossible. The Mark of Cain had only ever been removed once, by Cain himself. There was no spell for this, no ritual that had been tried and tested. Furthermore, from what they knew, the Mark _needed_ a bearer. It couldn't just be released.

"Yeah, well," Dean said, "until we do, I'm not hunting."

Sam didn't say anything. Dean looked up trying to gauge his reaction, but Sam wasn't looking at him anymore. Instead, his eyes were cast to the floor, and his fingers played with something nonexistent on the table. Dean could tell Sam thought the same as him.

It was quiet for a while, both brothers content to wait out the silence. Dean couldn't help but wonder what would succumb of the Mark if its desires weren't fulfilled. Would the need to hunt eventually drive him insane? Would he even realize it was happening?

* * *

Sam looked in the mirror and squeezed his hand into a fist. His arm had completely healed from when the demon had put it in a sling, but he could still feel slight pangs where he was shot . Dean had scared him that night.

They hadn't researched anything that first week after they'd gotten back. They'd hardly even spoke, each walking on eggshells around the other. Cas had yet to make himself present, even after multiple prayers and calls from Sam.

It wasn't until Sam caught Dean in the library, a large tome open on the table, that Sam saw the cabin fever starting to affect Dean.

"Hey," he'd said. Dean had looked up suddenly. "What're you doing?"

Dean had taken an unsettled breath, as if caught in a lie. "Nothing," he'd responded. "Shaun of the Dead?"

Sam had only hesitated slightly at Dean's quick change of topic. They'd planned to watch the movie earlier that morning.

"Yeah, I'll get the beer," he'd said. Dean had closed the book and smiled.

"Don't forget the pie!"

Their lives hadn't just been as simple as movies and pie though. It was obvious that Dean was struggling with more than just cabin fever. Sam had caught him once trying to leave, a full duffel slung over his shoulder.

"Where are you going?" he'd asked. Dean had stopped and wouldn't face his brother, sighing in defeat.

"I'm allowed to go out every once in a while," he'd said, his back still turned. His defensive tone gave him away too easily, but Sam wasn't going to say anything about it.

"I know," was all Sam had said. Dean had dropped the duffel, turned, and walked past Sam without another word. Sam had watched worriedly after his brother, knowing this wouldn't be the last time the Mark would call on Dean.

Looking back in the mirror, Sam relaxed his hand and finished buttoning his shirt. He left his room, only to catch Dean on his way out. His second attempt at leaving.

"I've gotta get out there, Sam," he said, barely meeting his brother's eyes.

"Okay, I'll come with you," Sam answered, but not making a move toward the door.

"No," Dean said quickly–too quickly for Sam's liking.

"It's fine, Dean," Sam said calmly. "We'll just go together." Sam made his way to the door. Suddenly, Dean's fist came out of nowhere, punching Sam's face. Sam stumbled back, his hand flying up to protect his face.

"Dean!" he yelled.

Before he knew what was happening, he was pushed up against the wall, Dean's face inches from his own. He felt Dean's hands tighten around his throat.

"Dean–" he wheezed, struggling to breathe around Dean's suffocating fingers.

Dean didn't let up though, and Sam's vision blurred. Panicked thoughts rushed his head, but all he could focus on was the look on his brother's face. It was as if Dean no longer saw his brother, and that Sam was just an obstacle in his way.

Convinced he was going to pass out, Sam felt Dean's hands slacken their grip around his throat, and he gasped for breath. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground, sucking in breath after breath.

When his breathing finally slowed to a manageable speed, he looked up to see Cas struggling to hold Dean back. Cas turned Dean away from Sam, and, as if a switch had been turned silencing the Mark's needs, Dean stopped struggling and Cas released his hold.

"Dean–" Sam said, but he choked, and couldn't get anything else out as he started coughing, his throat already becoming raw.

Dean paused but didn't look back or say anything. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair before hastening past Sam down the hall.

* * *

Cas considered following Dean, but decided it was better to leave him alone to cool off. He turned to Sam who was using the wall to pull himself up from the floor.

"Are you alright?" he asked. Sam nodded.

"Yeah," he said quietly. He walked past Cas and turned into the kitchen. Cas followed.

"I don't know, Cas, I think this 'no hunting' thing is doing more harm to him than good," Sam said. He got a cup from the cupboard and filled it with water. "I mean, yes, he's not going kill crazy, but it's obvious what it's doing to him."

Cas agreed with Sam. He had been too busy trying to reach other angels that he hadn't realized how far Dean's condition had progressed, and now it was possibly too late. Hunting was a part of Dean, a part that the Mark intensified, but also made Dean who he was. As soon as he took that away, the balance between hunting and killing was affected.

"The Mark hasn't overpowered Dean yet. There's still time, Cas said, trying to believe it himself.

"I don't know if he can last much longer," Sam said, sitting down at the table. He took a sip of water and cleared his throat.

Cas left him alone then. He wanted to believe Dean was stronger than the Mark, but he knew that eventually it wouldn't matter how strong Dean was.

* * *

When Cas returned to the kitchen, Sam was asleep at the table. He could tell Sam's throat was swollen, because every breath was accompanied by a whistle through his barely parted lips. Cas's stolen grace was running low these days, and there wasn't much he could do for Sam.

Cas heard footsteps out in the hallway, and looked up to see Dean standing in the kitchen doorway. Dean glanced at Sam and sighed, the guilt written plainly on his face.

"Dean–" Cas started to say, but stopped as Dean held a finger up to his lips and nodded at the still sleeping Sam. Cas was going to tell Dean that his violent actions toward Sam were simply repercussions of the Mark, and had nothing to do with Dean, but after five years of knowing him, Cas knew Dean would find a way to still blame himself.

Dean came further into the kitchen and quietly opened a cupboard. He pulled out a bottle half full of red liquid. At closer glance, Cas read "liquid Tylenol" on the label. Dean set it on the table in front of Sam, and watched his brother struggle to breath for a second before turning and leaving the kitchen. Cas followed Dean into the library.

"This 'no hunting' thing isn't working, Cas," Dean said. Cas thoughtfully remarked to himself that Sam had said the same thing not twenty minutes ago. Dean looked down at the few open books on the table, all regarding Cain, Abel, or the Mark. "I can barely keep it together on a good day. Man, he didn't even try to sop me from leaving, and I just lost it! If you hadn't been there– I don't–"

"Dean–"

"Where have you even been?"

Dean suddenly turned on Cas, glaring and breathing heavily. Cas didn't flinch. "I mean, does it really take me practically killing Sam for you to show up?" Dean took another step toward Cas.

"Dean you need to calm down," Cas said evenly. He watched Dean's face slowly relax, and Dean took a step back from Cas, seeming to realize he was about to go too far. He didn't say anything, and wouldn't meet Cas' eyes as he slowly sunk down into one of the library chairs.

"I don't know what to do," he whispered, letting his head fall into his hands.

Cas had only ever seen this much vulnerability from dean when the safety of Sam was involved. It made him wonder what other things would increase the feeling in Dean.

"I can barely control it anymore, and when I can, it's all I think about."

"If you let the Mark shame you, it will more easily overpower you."

Dean looked up suddenly, surprised. "What?" he asked.

"The Mark is meant to use the bearer as Hell's soldier, but it has more than a physical affect on you," Cas explained. "When its physical and mental aspects are not kept at an equilibrium, then are you most vulnerable to its influence. If the Mark isn't stopped, it will eventually overpower you, but until it does, you can keep its effects in balance."

Dean sighed. "Well that may be all well and great, but we're about as close to finding a way to get rid of it as we were six months ago."

"Hannah and I–" Cas paused. He had trouble mentioning the other angel lately, after what they'd been through together, and the realities about their relationship she had set straight with him. "We've been doing some digging. Independence, Missouri may very well be your next place to look."

"Why? What's in Independence?"

"I can't say," Cas said, "big things, dark things."

"What do you mean you can't say? Does it have to do with the Mark?"

"If anything, it is a chance for you to hunt. Go, Dean."

Cas watched Dean's face, and could sense Dean's disbelief as well as his eagerness. It was a mark of how desperate Dean had become that he simply nodded and left the library to go pack. Cas sighed and watched him leave. He could only hope that their answers for the Mark really did reside in Independence, because he knew that Dean didn't have long.


End file.
